Chapter Text
The blinds are already open when Sunoo walks into Jake’s office, which is honestly so rude he considers turning around because the sun is blinding and aggressive and absolutely not what he needs assaulting his retinas at eight in the morning. Especially not after a shoot the day before that went six hours over schedule, left his feet permanently angry at him, and ended with someone spilling their kombucha all over his clothes. He hasn’t slept, hasn’t had coffee, and if Jake says one overly chipper thing, he’s going to file for workplace cruelty.
Jake doesn’t even look up when he walks in. He’s typing with one hand, airpods in, and sipping an energy drink that smells like melted watermelon candy. Sunoo drops into the chair across from his desk with a dramatic sigh. “If this is about that magazine shoot, I already told you. I'm not bleaching my eyebrows again. I looked like an angry Q-tip.”
Jake looks up at that, finally cracking a smile. “Not this time, no. But thank you for that mental image.”
Sunoo narrows his eyes, suspicion creeping in as he watches Jake settle into his chair with the smug satisfaction of someone who knows something and is entirely too pleased about it.
“Why do you look like that?” Sunoo asks slowly, arms crossing. “That face. The smug one. You’re doing it.”
Jake sets his energy drink down with deliberate flair, folds his arms across his chest, and leans forward over the desk like he’s about to deliver the opening line of a soap opera.
“Because,” he says, pausing for dramatic effect, “Tom Ford called.”
Silence. The room goes still except for the ticking of the wall clock and the faint sound of Sunoo’s soul briefly leaving his body. Sunoo blinks once. Then again.
“I’m sorry,” he says, deadpan. “Did you say Tom Ford? As in the actual Tom Ford? The brand? The man? The fashion deity?”
Jake doesn’t answer. He just slides a sleek, glossy black folder across the desk like it contains government secrets.
“They want you,” Jake says, and his grin is back. “For the fall campaign. Mainline. Underwear line. Three weeks of shooting. Starts in two months.”
Sunoo stares at the folder like it’s ticking. Then up at Jake. Then back at the folder.
“Underwear.” he echoes faintly. “Mainline. Like…the big one?”
Jake’s eyes sparkle. “The one with billboards. Global rollout. Milan, Seoul, New York. Possibly a Times Square takeover if they get final approval.”
Sunoo presses a hand to his forehead. “I need ten more hours of sleep before I emotionally process this.”
Jake just shrugs, clearly unbothered. “You’ve got ten minutes. Then we start talking abs and protein.”
It takes a moment for the words to register. Sunoo blinks again, slower this time. Then, cautiously, he opens the folder. The concept board hits like a punch. Black-and-white shots of shirtless men in low-rise briefs, long limbs sprawled on velvet, bodies chiseled from every angle. One model’s entire job appears to be existing with visible obliques. The aesthetic is dark, sleek, classic Tom Ford, but also intensely physical.
Sunoo stares at the folder, lips parting slightly like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out. His fingers curl at the edge of the desk, not quite touching the folder again, like it might burn him if he opens it one more time. Jake watches him carefully, the smugness from before long gone.
“They want you,” he says again, softer now. No teasing. No edge. Just truth.
“No,” he says quietly, eyes still fixed on the contents of the folder. “They want abs.”
Jake exhales through his nose, but his voice stays calm. Measured. He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on the desk. “They want you. With some definition.”
“Look–you're already their top choice. Face, charisma, energy. Check, check, check. They said you light up a frame. They said you’re exactly the kind of presence they want leading the campaign.”
Sunoo doesn't move. Jake continues, more gently this time.
“They just want a little more muscle tone. That’s all. Nothing drastic. Think ‘sharper lines,’ not ‘bulked out.’ A stronger silhouette. Not a different body.”
Sunoo finally closes the folder. The soft click of it shutting feels louder than it should. He’s quiet for a long moment. Then, voice low, he asks, “Do they think I’m not good enough the way I am?”
Jake doesn’t answer right away. And when he does, it’s with a sigh and a measured tone, like he’s had to give this kind of answer before too many times.
“That’s not what this is. You know how this works, Sunoo. It’s about branding. Moodboards. Visual direction. It’s not about you being ‘less than.’ You still get to look like you. Just…with a bit more edge.”
But that’s the problem. Sunoo knows what he looks like. He’s been told his whole life. He’s beautiful. He’s ethereal. He’s got the kind of face people chase with camera lenses and filters. He’s heard it from stylists, photographers, makeup artists who whisper “unreal” like it’s holy.
But they don’t talk about his body. His body is met with adjustments, lighting shifts, and pinned fabric. Suggestions whispered just loud enough to sting. He’s lean. He’s always been lean. Not soft, exactly, but not hard either. He doesn’t have the kind of body that people gasp over in backstage dressing rooms or gym locker rooms.
He has the kind of body he’s trained himself to hide without even realizing. Angles in photos that cover his stomach. Hands that automatically adjust jackets to fall just right. The quiet mental math he does every time a stylist starts pulling clothes. He’s not unaware. He knows perfectly well that his body doesn’t book the campaign. His face does.
And still, even that face—flawless as they say it is—hasn’t been enough to keep men around once the lights are off. He knows what it feels like to see desire turn into disappointment. He knows what it sounds like when someone exhales a little too hard after seeing him bare. He knows what it feels like to be almost enough. Or to be told flat-out that he wasn’t.
‘You’re lucky you have a good face,’ his ex had said once, after sex. The same man who’d told him he was “kind of squishy,” then told him it was just a joke, supposedly. A passing comment in bed that never really passed. And it stuck, like comments like that always do. Not just to his skin, but beneath it. Sunoo hasn’t worn crop tops since.
He draws in a breath through his nose, slow and shaky. Jake doesn’t push. After a few beats, Sunoo lifts his eyes, voice brittle around the edges. “What if I try and it still isn’t enough?”
Jake looks at him, eyes steady. “Then they’re the ones who weren’t enough for you.”
It’s a nice thing to say. Sunoo knows that. And maybe, in another version of himself, one not held together by critiques and quiet self-surveillance, he’d believe it. But for now, he just nods. A small, mechanical movement. Then he stands up.
“I’ll go,” he says. “To the gym. Tell them I’ll do it.”
And Jake just nods back. Not pushing. Not congratulating. Just supporting. Quietly. Like he knows this isn’t a win. Not yet.
He forces a smile now, fake and thin. “When do you want me to start working out?”
“I already booked you a trial session later today with a personal trainer. Just one hour. You don’t even have to talk to people.”
Sunoo arches a brow. “You say that like I haven’t seen gym bros in the wild.”
Jake grins. “You’ll be fine.”
=x=
Sunoo seriously considers faking a sudden illness when he arrives and realizes the entire gym is made of glass and mirrors. ‘Who designed this place? Lucifer?’
He swipes in with his newly acquired membership card, head ducked under the hood of his oversized sweatshirt, sunglasses firmly on despite being indoors. He hates this already.
The receptionist directs him to a stretching area to wait for the trainer assigned to him. It’s surrounded by sleek machines and impossibly toned people who look like they came from a Marvel movie set. Every reflection makes him feel like an intruder in a place that runs on testosterone and performance.
He kneels on a mat, keeping his head down, trying to look busy. He reaches for a hamstring stretch and winces as his hoodie slides up, exposing just a sliver of skin. That’s when he hears it:
“Careful. If you stretch any further, I might have to intervene.”
Sunoo startles, whips his head up, and immediately regrets it. The man standing nearby is beautiful in the kind of way Sunoo hates: athletic, angular, flushed with post-workout sweat and stupidly confident. His white tank top clings to his chest in a way that should be illegal. He has a towel slung around his neck, his jaw sharp and damp, and his smirk even sharper.
He looks like the kind of guy who belongs in the campaign Sunoo’s been told to earn his way into. Sunoo straightens, cold already rising in his throat. “Excuse me?”
The guy tilts his head. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Just–stretching alone? Dangerous stuff.”
Sunoo glares. “Pretty sure I’m safe doing yoga poses, thanks.”
“Yoga, huh?” The man steps a little closer. “That explains the flexibility. But I gotta say…you don’t look like the usual gym type.”
Sunoo crosses his arms over his chest. “Is that supposed to be an insult?”
The man’s smirk turns into something softer. “No. It’s supposed to be a compliment. You’re a little hard to miss.”
Sunoo flushes, caught off guard. He doesn’t know what pisses him off more, that this guy is hot, or that he’s being charming about it.
“I’m not interested,” Sunoo says firmly.
“In stretching?”
“In you.”
The man’s eyes widen slightly. Then he laughs, genuinely amused. “That’s fair. But for the record, I was just being friendly.”
Sunoo scoffs. “Right. Friendly. You always hit on strangers mid-stretch?”
“Noted. No stretching compliments.” The guy steps back and raises both hands. Then, he pauses.
“Sunghoon,” he adds, like a peace offering. “I’m here every morning. And if it helps, I’ve seen your skincare ads. You’re kind of hard to forget. You looked like an angel.”
Sunoo’s stomach tightens. He doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want the teasing or the heat or the confusing feeling crawling up his spine. He doesn’t trust men like that—men who flirt for sport, men who see him and think he’s an easy reaction, something delicate to poke at.
“I don’t need your attention,” he says coldly. But Sunghoon doesn’t look offended. He just tilts his head again, watching him with unreadable eyes.
“I think you need to stop assuming I’m messing with you,” he replies, voice quiet now. “Some of us mean what we say.”
Sunoo doesn’t have a chance to respond. His trainer arrives just then, calling his name. He turns without another word, stalking toward the weights where his trainer waits, hoodie pulled tight like armor. But even as the session starts, and the trainer walks him through reps, Sunoo can feel the weight of eyes on his back. And worse, he can feel the echo of that voice in his ears.
“You’re kind of hard to forget.”
=x=
Sunoo’s muscles ache. He’s showered, changed into silk pajamas, hair still damp, and is currently half-heartedly poking at a pre-made salad when his doorbell rings. Jungwon appears two seconds later with a bottle of wine and a bag of fried chicken.
“You looked like a ghost in your texts,” he says by way of greeting. “And I’m not letting you starve out of spite again.”
Sunoo sighs and lets him in. “Did you bring the red sauce?”
“Obviously.” Jungwon kicks off his shoes, flops onto the couch, and pulls the food out like he owns the place. “So? How was gym hell?”
Sunoo slinks onto the couch beside him. Picks a piece of lettuce out of his salad like it insulted him.
“It was fine. Terrible. I hate it.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“There was a guy.”
Jungwon pauses mid-bite. “Oh?”
“He was–” Sunoo stops. Frowns. “–tall. Muscular. Hot. The usual nightmare.”
Jungwon chews thoughtfully. “Okay…and?”
“He flirted with me. Like, aggressively.”
“Hot and confident? Tragic.”
“I think he was messing with me.”
Jungwon raises a brow. “Why?”
Sunoo shrugs. “Because that’s what guys like that do.”
“No, assholes do that,” Jungwon corrects. “Did he actually say anything rude?”
“No. He…complimented my skincare ad. Said I was hard to forget. Called me–” Sunoo grimaces. “–an angel.”
Jungwon stares. “You’re mad because a hot guy with muscles called you an angel?”
“I’m mad because I don’t know if it’s real!”
“Babe,” Jungwon says, very seriously, “you are an angel.”
“Shut up.”
“You are. And maybe this guy is just into angels.”
Sunoo groans and collapses sideways on the couch, burying his face in Jungwon’s shoulder. “I’m going to die.”
Jungwon pats his head. “You’re going to fall in love with a gym rat and I’m going to be the one smugly holding the mic at your wedding.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Oh, I dare.”